


seven songs for the she-wolf and her smith...

by DrHolland



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya x Gendry Week 2015, F/M, Gen, Other, arya and gendry week 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 02:26:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4417442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrHolland/pseuds/DrHolland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven fics for Arya and Gendry Week 2015. (Some updates have been loosely inspired by my current WIP, Arya of the Thousand Days, although the two works are not tied together. Others are AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Midnight

It was Arya’s first time in Winterfell since leaving with her father, Sansa, and the king’s party so many years ago. And nothing was the same.

It had been a fortnight since she’d arrived here, with Gendry and Jaime Lannister. Only five weeks since she’d found Gendry chopping wood for those orphans. And less than two turns of the moon since she’d set foot in Westeros for the first time in more than three years.

Arya wanted to be Ned Stark’s little girl all over again. As she lay in a new bed in a room other than the one she’d grown up in, she’d willed it and she’d wished it. But Winterfell was different now, thanks to the ravages of Theon Turncloak and the Bolton Bastard. These stones were new, the wood of the ceiling’s rafters were new, the bricks and mortar around the fireplace was new…

Everything was new.  _Too_ new.

Tossing and turning in bed for a while, Arya thought about their reception from Stannis Baratheon, self-proclaimed King of Westeros. But since the alternative was the Evil Lannister Queen Regent Cersei, both she and Gendry had bent the knee.

“I’ve no intention of stealing Winterfell from your brother, girl,” Stannis assured Arya. “And once the time comes, I’ll see that you are properly wed, in honor of your lord father.”

Arya didn’t say anything, merely nodded and muttered her assent. She tried, but failed, not to let her gaze shift away from Stannis to the man standing at her left.

Stannis noticed, of course.

“Of course you would have dug up one of my brother’s bastards.” Firmly, he lifted up Gendry’s chin. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Gendry.”

“Who was your mother?”

“No one… she was a tavern girl. She had yellow hair. Sang me to sleep when I was little…”

Stannis’ entire face changed. “You’re the one Varys sent to Tobho Mott, back during the Greyjoy uprising. So you’re an apprentice smith?”

“Master, m’lo… I mean, Your Grace. I became a master while I was smithing for the Bro… a lord in the Riverlands.”

“Very well. You may stay here and smith for me while I am in residence at Winterfell.” He looked severely at Arya, then back to Gendry. “You don’t share your father’s love for drink and whores, do you? You haven’t defiled a highborn girl like he did?”

“No, Ser!... I mean, never, Your Grace! Arya is my friend. We met as children. I would never bring m’lady dishonor.”

Arya was startled by what she saw in Gendry’s eyes then. It looked like tenderness.

Now Stannis was regarding her. “Does he tell it true?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she affirmed quickly. “He hasn’t touched me, and I’ve seen him turn down loads of serving girls and whores. He only cares for the smithy.”

That seemed to satisfy the king. “Very well.”

But it didn’t satisfy Arya. After a moon of travel, often sleeping by Gendry’s side, it seemed strange to be back in the Keep.

At midnight, Arya decided that she’d had well enough of this new Winterfell without her mother and father, and Jon and Robb, and Sansa and Bran and Rickon. What good would it be to dwell in Winterfell if her pack was scattered by the winds of winter?

She knew exactly where she could find the familiarity she craved.

Dressing quickly, Arya stole out of her room on silent feet, and was out of the keep in almost no time at all. Soon, she was approaching the forge, knowing that Gendry would have barred the front door but not the back, valuing his tools and metal more than defending his own person.

He kept his hammer at the side of his bed for that.

She stole into his small and modest room, shutting the door behind her. The stillness and quiet was only broken by Gendry’s quiet snores that matched the rise and fall of his moonlit shoulder and arm. A blanket covered him to the waist.

Arya couldn’t take her eyes off him. She admired his muscled arms and torso as she threw her cloak over the single chair in the room, then slid off her boots. Within moments, she was sliding into bed next to him, savoring his warmth, not caring what anyone might say.

She knew the instant he awoke with a start, realized that her presence was more than just a dream, felt his arms tighten around her.

“Milady, everything all right?”

They spoke in whispers. “Yes,” she replied. “All is right now that I’m here. With you.”

She felt, then heard him exhale, and smiled brightly as she closed her eyes.

Winterfell wasn’t the same. But it didn’t matter.

As long as Gendry was there with her, it would always be her home.

 


	2. Open Your Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First attempt at modern AU Gendrya. Better at novel-length fics, but I’m trying my best to be a good AxG fic writing citizen! Be gentle… :)

“Know what our problem is? As girls, I mean?”

Arya looked up from the dance magazine she’d been poring over, eyebrow raised. Her plate of salad remained untouched, although she was famous (and hated) in Oldtown Ballet Theatre’s cafeteria for being able to eat an entire stack of aurochs sliders without gaining a single ounce.

“No, Shireen. I don’t know what our problem is. Neither do I particularly care.”

“Glad you asked. The problem with a lot of girls is that we have these silly ideas about what love is supposed to look like, so we don’t realize it when we have love right in front of us. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I agree… that you’re being _super_ annoying today.”

At her response, her friend let out an exasperated little noise. This was also strange. As they’d been roommates, schoolmates, and company mates at Oldtown for the past five years, Shireen knew not to take Arya’s blunt remarks seriously. What gave today?

“Seven hells… _what_ is it, Shireen?”

“It’s literally the fact that you’re oblivious to the fact that our set designer, who also happens to be my cousin, has spent practically the entire _year_ trying to get your attention. And you’re oblivious.”

Frown. “I am not.”

“So the fact that Gendry’s laughing with Margaery right next to that door _right now_ makes no difference to you?”

_Of course it makes no difference. She’s the harlot from Highgarden, everyone knows that… and if he doesn’t have better taste than that…_

“Hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, I think you have. And I think that’s why you don’t care if I swipe your favorite yogurt.”

Arya tuned Shireen out as she sneaked a glance at Gendry, who always sought her out until a particularly awkward moment a few weeks before (which ended with her spending the night in his studio apartment, asleep in his amazingly soft bed, until they both woke up at the same time and ohOldGodseverythingwastouchingandthentheirlips….).

Even now, Arya’s lips tingled with the memory of their morning kiss.

She’d scampered out of his place and back to the dorms on the Hightower campus with barely a look over her shoulder, let alone any words of explanation.

Gendry hadn’t spoken to her since.

_Well, I don’t care if he doesn’t._

“He’s looking at you again,” Shireen said between bites of what apparently was no longer Arya’s favorite yogurt. “For like the millionth time. Just like you’re pretending to read that stupid magazine. You two are _so_ funny.”

“There’s nothing funny about it,” Arya protested, slamming her magazine to the table. “Shut up.”

“Me shutting up isn’t going to change the fact that you’re totally in love with Gendry Waters.”

“I am not!”

But she’d said it a bit too loudly, and it drew the attention of a few people in the vicinity…

Including Gendry and Margaery.

“Enjoy my yogurt, _traitor,_ ” snapped Arya, standing up, blushing in spite of herself under a certain person’s cerulean blue gaze.

Shireen’s smile was priceless, the smooth scar on her face causing it to become almost a bit of a smirk.

“Open your eyes, _friend_.”

Arya walked out of the cafeteria, leaving her tray and the magazine for Shireen. And of course, Gendry would choose that exact moment to follow her, despite Margaery’s protests. Arya walked quickly down the hall and rounded a corner to a hallway less traveled, hoping that he’d get the hint and leave her alone. Didn’t he have some two-by-fours to hammer for an upcoming show or something?

“Arya, wait.”

She could pretend not to hear him calling her, or she could turn around.

“I can’t. I have studio in 15 minutes and this pair of pointe shoes....”

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

“Both.” Instinct told her to keep her back to him although she slowed her pace, then stopped. _If I turn around, I’m in trouble._

Gendry made the choice for her when his hands on her shoulders turned her to face him.

“Listen, Arya, about that night…”

Arya had no idea why she did what she did next, but she stood _en pointe,_ leaned into him, and kissed him the way that she had that morning at his place.

“Guess we don’t need to talk about it right now,” Gendry said, several blissful moments later.

“Guess not,” she said against his lips, gazing up at him happily. “My eyes have been opened.”


	3. Wet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fic for Day 3 – “Wet,” was inspired by a scene in my WIP, Arya of the Thousand Days. When I saw this prompt, I immediately thought of a certain scene in Chapter 6, “If There Be Dragons,” and thought I’d do an outtake. Quotes from the chapter are in italics, and the new material’s regular text. You don’t have to be reading AOTTD to get what’s going on, because it’s pretty self-explanatory. ;-)

_As was their habit, Arya and Gendry didn’t enter the royal pavilion until after the feast had begun. They’d ridden hard past Harrenhal, Arya refusing her brother's offer of a flight atop Viserion, and had both been greatly in need of a bath. Normally, she wouldn’t have cared, but Gendry did. So off in search of a suitable stream they went._

_Perhaps Arya would never be able to fully help her bull forget his courtesies and have the easy arrogance of a nobleman… but she could help him forget the fact that there was a royal supper they had to get to, quite easily..._

They lay in the sun, stretched out atop a blanket that had traveled with them from the Riverlands to the far North and back, beneath one of the few pines that thrived this far South. Although the chill of early spring was still in the air, the day was overwarm, and their men ensured that this stream of the Blackwater Rush would be undisturbed.

But just then, Arya and Gendry were quite content to stretch in the sun after playfully bathing in that stream, then making love, napping, and repeating the process over again. Lazing about, as if neither had a care in the world. Too long had they lingered in the lands of winter, where too many days had come and gone without even a sliver of light from the sky. There had been too many nights when the teeth of the cold threatened even his best nightfires, too many mornings when she and Nymeria would venture forth with torches and dragonflamed steel, lest they encounter a wandering wight.

Now that the War for the Dawn was won, the war for the South would follow. It was a time for peace…

And love.

Nothing had ever felt so good as Arya Stark in his arms, not even a hammer, Gendry thought as they lay there, knowing that they needed to get to the silver queen’s feast, but lingering in post-coital bliss anyway. Her skin was softer than silk, the softest thing he’d ever felt. And her hair…

“We should probably get up,” she murmured drowsily, tracing idle patterns on his damp chest, as he ran his fingers through still-wet hair that had grown longer than he’d ever seen her wear it before. “Daenerys always gives us that look.”

“What look?”

“You know the one.”

Gendry couldn’t help but laugh. “Since when do you care about what people think?”

“I do care sometimes,” Arya insisted, sitting up slightly with a frown on her face. “It’s my brother and his new family. He likes to see me in a dress. Even I can be obliging sometimes...”

“You know you’ll be fidgeting all through the feast. Besides, he’s seen you plenty of times without…”

“He has not!” She slapped his chest. “What do you take us for, Targaryens?”

He knew he should quit while he was ahead, but Arya was _so_ much fun to tease. “Actually, Lord Jon is…”

That earned him another slap (which he actually _felt)_ , but Gendry just pulled her down atop him. Instead of hitting him more, she began to squirm and squeal as he tickled her sides.

“Stop, Gendry!” Arya laughed, trying to catch her breath as he pinned her beneath him again. “We have to get dressed sometime…”

“I like you better like this,” he murmured against her ear, growing hard between her legs again. “If you only could know how good you make me feel, Arya.”

 _Stupid._ How he wished he could say pretty words to her, like the bards who sang the songs… words that captured exactly how she made him feel.

But as much as she called him stupid, she didn’t just then. Instead, her grey eyes shone in the sunlight.

“Your wife is supposed to make you feel that way,” she whispered, leaning up to kiss him. “And I’m glad I’m your wife, Gendry. I’ll always be glad.”

He returned her kiss, and tried to lengthen it, but she broke away with a moan.

“Arya…” 

“Gendry, it’s long past the dinner hour. They’ll be waiting for us. My family, and the Targaryens, too. And you _know_ that our men won’t take more than bread, salt, and perhaps a bit of mead and ale before we arrive…”

“We can send word for them to begin without us.” His hand cupped the side of her face.

She smirked at him. “We’ve sent word already. It doesn’t matter. They’ll still be expecting us.” Kissing him one last time, she pushed gently at his shoulder until he allowed her to get up and walk over to the bundle where they kept their clothing.

Gendry tucked his hands behind his head and enjoyed the view. He’d seen much and more in his twenty years, but no sight pleased him better than the view of Arya, clad in nothing but sky. She would never be very tall, but Arya Stark had grown into an alluring woman whose bare curves would make any redblooded man’s eyes linger.

And so Gendry’s eyes lingered, and well Arya knew it, as she slipped on a simple yet elegant dress of blue that had looked nearly grey in the pale light of Winterfell’s courtyard. But here in warmer climes, it was the color of the brightest of skies.

She turned back toward him with an indescribable look on her face.

“What was that noise you just made?”

“That, milady, was the sound of disappointment.”

“You don’t like my dress?”

“Aye, I like it just fine, and you’re pretty in it, but… I’d prefer it on the grass.” _Or on the floor of Winterfell’s forge,_ he thought, remembering.

As she bit her lip (which always drove him wild), Arya’s eyes swept the length of his reclining body, in the cool appraising way that always set his blood aflame, then back to his face.

“But all our allies will be in that tent, and this is the only dress I have,” she teased, turning this way and that so that he could see the way the bodice of the Sansa-made confection showcased her chest, the way the cut of the skirts displayed her slender waist and rounded hips. “And you don’t like it.”

Gendry stood up from his reclining position on the blanket, walked over to where she stood with her hands on her hips.

He pulled her into his arms.

“Half the eligible lords in Westeros wanted you for a wife. _Including_ that little lordling Ned Dayne…”

“…who happens to be our friend, stupid,” she chuckled.

“And that bastard Ramsay pretended he was your husband! That Frey boy said he was engaged to you. It’s not the dress, Arya. It’s _you.”_

She kissed him fiercely then, stealing his breath… and his heart… for the thousandth time.

Then without further ado, she slipped out of his arms again, raced to the edge of the stream, and jumped in. Gendry thought to follow her, but before he could, she emerged and climbed back onto the bank…

…the wet dress clinging to every single one of her curves.

“How do you like my dress now, Gendry?”

And his answer was not in words.

_They arrived late, quite clean, a bit breathless, Lady Arya of Winterfell and the newly legitimized Lord Gendry of House Baratheon. Although both were dressed simply in leather breeches, an unadorned golden tunic for him, and a belted white chemise for her, they drew every eye. Partly because they were a famous pair, partly because they looked exactly like the forest lass and love from Tom of Sevenstreams’ songs…_

_…but mostly because they looked exactly like the Lady Lyanna and King Robert, returned from the grave. Especially the way Arya’s chestnut hair, so like her half-brother’s, curled past her shoulders and down her back… and the fact that Gendry hadn’t bothered to shave while on the road and wore the same mustache and beard as the late Baratheon king... albeit close cropped and neatly trimmed, much as Robert had done when he was a young man._

_Queen Daenerys greeted the pair with a smile after they were announced and the noise of the gathering died down to whispers._

_“Lord Gendry, Lady Arya,” she said brightly as Gendry bowed gallantly and Arya made her best attempt at a curtsy. “Please, come sit with us on the dais. Jon and Aegon return soon.”_


	4. Secret Relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another outtake from the Arya of the Thousand Days universe. References to SanSan and Rickeen, so be forewarned if you dislike either/both of those ships.
> 
> Takes place about 3 months before the events in the preceding fic, “Wet.”

Sansa glanced behind her, then at her faithful Hound, ensuring that the corridor was clear.

Their eyes met. In hers, there was quiet determination. In his, an idle question:

“I shan’t be long," she told him.

The eyebrow on the unburnt side of his face raised slowly.

“Don’t look at me like that, Sandor. This, I must do.”

“Without the consent of the queen? All grown up, I see.”

She shook her head, but there was a faint smile on her lips. “I've been a wife twice over, and am a mother besides. I have no need of the dragon queen’s consent, for my brother is looked upon with as much authority as she.”

Sandor still didn’t look convinced.

“Just… keep your post, Ser.”

“I’m no one’s Ser. Not even yours, little bird.”

They did not dare hold hands, not in the light of day. But the tips of her long, elegant fingers brushed the back of his gloved hand.

It was enough.

For now.

Opening the door to the Lord of Winterfell’s solar, Sansa, Lady Regent of the Vale, slipped inside the rooms that had once belonged to her parents.

Sansa didn’t understand how Bran could stay here, let alone _sleep_ in the room. She could barely stand for all the memories that assaulted her as she crossed the threshold, walking toward where her brothers were talking beside the fire.

Or rather, Rickon was pacing, his long legs like a colt’s, the drafts he stirred up making the fire flicker.

Bran was watching Rick as he paced with a frown, but turned and inclined his head toward Sansa.

“Sister, it has been too long,” he greeted her, in his eerily calm way. There had been little and less calm about young Brandon Stark before his fall. “I trust that your journey was pleasant?”

“Yes, Bran. We made good time on the kingroad. Spring has arrived in the South, and it is beautiful.”

“And boring,” was Rickon’s opinion of it all. “Haven’t seen any fucking action since the sack of the Twins… when do we ride South to relieve the siege on King’s Landing? That’s what I want to know.”

Sansa laughed to herself at her wild youngest brother’s inability to censor himself, while Bran admonished him sharply.

“Our eldest sister is a great lady of the realm. You will show her some respect.”

“But Bran, isn’t that what we’re here to talk about? The way some of our men are failing to show our sisters... _proper_ respect?”

Rickon’s tone was mocking, as only that of an overgrown twelve-year-old who’d seen far too many battles could be. He might have the height and build of their eldest brother Robb, but he was a hairsbreadth away from being pure wildling, and well they knew it.

Sansa folded her arms. If her younger brothers had called her to Winterfell because of the rumors swirling about her, well…

“I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

“See, Bran? No one knows in the Vale, and you know how much Southrons like to gossip.” Rickon swung playfully at the air. “Arya’s a woman of the North, and our sister besides. She don’t have to bat her eyelashes at all these simpering lords skulking about Winterfell seeking her hand…”

This was a surprising development. Sansa frowned.

“Who’s seeking Arya’s hand already? It’s not even been four full turns of the moon since Jon…”

But Sansa could not even talk about what Jon had done. Not yet. She’d only arrived with the armies of the Vale and the Riverlands at the very end of it all. Neither her mind nor her fancy could fully come to terms with the wonders she’d seen, and especially not what her half-brother (no, her _cousin)_ had managed to do when all hope seemed lost.

It was the second time Sansa Stark had witnessed a battle where the gentle Mother had chosen to save them all.

“The North remembers, sister,” Bran told her quietly. “Daily, I receive callers, ravens, and riders all wishing to know one thing. The whole of the North, and many of the Lords of the South, have petitioned me for the hands of my sisters.”

Sansa’s frown deepened.

“But your sisters are not maidens. We are widows.”

“The end of the Wars means that many are seeking new alliances. And the best way to seal an alliance is through marriage.” Pause. “I did not write you, Sansa, to ask you to marry anyone. Your son is but a babe, and you are fresh widowed.”

Sansa remained quiet. _Little Eddard will be fine,_ she thought, _as long as I keep him safe in the Vale. At least, while he is a babe and a boy._

“I came to ask you to be here with me when I speak to Arya. During the war, she and Jon made an agreement with Stannis Baratheon that was not theirs to make. I need you to help her see good sense.”

Rickon broke into laughter. “Good luck with that.”

Bran, who generally gave his younger brother plenty of latitude simply because he was glad to have him back, seemed outraged.

“Will you just shut up?”

“No. Bran, this is fucking ridiculous! Tell all the Lords and Sers who have camped out in the winter town waiting for us to put our sisters on the market that they’re not for sale.” He smirked at Sansa. “ _And_ they’re both taken.”

Sansa fought a blush. Rickon had been but a small child when he was taken away from Winterfell. How could he know them all so well?

“Jon is neither Lord of Winterfell, nor is he Arya’s guardian. The Umbers have said…”

“Arya will never go to the Last Hearth willingly,” said Sansa flatly. “Bran, what are you doing? The Lannisters and the Others almost tore our family apart and ended the House of Winter for all time. Please don’t tell me that you called us together simply to force your will on our sister.”

Bran sighed.

“I do not wish to force her, Sansa. I’m not a fool. I know that Arya is in love with Ser Gendry, and he with her. The whole of the North knows it. It is Winterfell’s worst kept secret. But if I allow her to marry him, someday she will go South to claim Storm’s End. And there, she will die. I have seen it.”

Rickon kicked at the rushes that covered the floor. “Where’d you get that, from the weirwood or your bollocks? Gendry’s got no claim on Storm’s End! He’s perfectly happy smithing for…”

“And that’s why I’ve got two thousand men sworn to him that will not leave the North until he does. He commanded another five thousand who have ridden South to reclaim their lands but look to him as their liege lord. And that is a fraction of their strength, for many fell in battle.”

Sansa took the seat next to Bran. Laid her hand on his knee, though he could not feel it.

“Bran, cease worrying. It is Edric, son of Delena Florent, who has the best claim…”

“Other than a few Houses, the strength of the Stormlands will never follow Edric, especially not the Marcher Lords, or anyone loyal to Stannis and his daughter. The stormlords are saying that the will of Stannis must be honored, and the claim given to the Knight of the Hollow Hill, the Bull, the Smith Reborn and the Last Stag… the truest son of Robert Baratheon.”

And Bran sighed again.

“That’s not all the will said…” Rickon began.

“I told you to shut up. Can you even read?”

Rickon stuck out his tongue. “I can so read. My little stone princess has been teaching me. I try to kiss her, but she keeps insisting on me learning my letters. Well, as I told her, I'll learn a letter for each kiss she gives me. Writing will cost a fair bit more.”

Sansa, in spite of herself, giggled a little. Rickon was rude, unreasonable, and the most inappropriate Stark of their generation, but it was well known to the inhabitants of Winterfell that Shireen Baratheon had him wrapped around her little finger. It was Shireen, not Bran, who could curb Rickon Stark’s impulses.

“Someday, the burden of ruling Winterfell will fall on you, brother, and your son after you,” Bran told him. “Then you will understand that I do this because I love Arya, not because…”

“You want to control her? Sell her maidenhead to the highest bidder? Let’s see, the _last_ two or three times Stark girls were bartered on the open market, we started a war, or two, or _three.”_

“Rickon!” Bran’s voice was raised, and it was terrible, seeming to rise through the wind in the leaves of the godswood, visible from the windows of the Great Keep. “You will hold your tongue. I am your lord and I will not tolerate this disrespect.”

The younger boy bowed stiffly in a way that edged on impolite.

“Then I shall leave you before I say something we’ll both regret. May I be excused, _milord?”_

At his little brother's affectation of a Skagosi brogue, Bran started to say something else, yet decided to let it go. “You may.”

Rickon turned away from his older brother, then turned to address Sansa.

“Good luck trying to figure out how to get our she-wolf of a sister to stop sleeping with the castle blacksmith, then. You’re going to need it.”

And without further ado, the heir to Winterfell walked out of the solar, looking from the Hound, then back at Sansa with a smirk.

 

*

 

Later that evening, just as the stars came out, the Stark sisters walked through the godswood of Winterfell, each keeping her own thoughts.

Arya always knew when Sansa had something on her mind. As the younger of the two, she’d grown up observing her, knowing her elder sister’s tells, simply to prepare herself for their frequent fights.

They hadn’t fought since they were reunited in the darkest moments in the War for the Dawn. Although she and Sansa would always be as night and day, there wasn’t a girl in the world that Arya looked up to more. She wasn’t much for sentimentality, but it was so sweet to walk arm in arm with the sister whose approval she always secretly wanted.

Of course, Arya would never tell Sansa that. Not even now. She’d just have to know it.

Yet Sansa seemed to know. They sat down together in their father Ned’s favorite spot under the heart tree, still arm in arm, Arya leaning her braided head on her elder sister’s shoulder as she closed her eyes.

“I can always feel him best here,” Arya said finally. “Not in those crypts.”

Sansa didn’t say anything for a while. Then, “Me too. I wish… I wish that I could only tell him that…”

Arya’s hand slipped into her sister’s to squeeze.

“There is no need. Father already knows. He knew even when he was alive, Sansa.”

“If it weren’t for me, he would have never died.”

“Many and more have died in the years since. Things happened as they did. We can’t take our guilt with us into the spring. We have to live. For winter is coming.”

“Winter is coming,” Sansa agreed, squeezing back. “Thank you, Arya.”

“It is nothing,” she shrugged. “What I want to know is why you can’t come home from the stuffy old Vale.”

Sansa laughed. “It’s my home now. My friends are there. My husband’s bones. And my little babe.”

“That is right, I haven’t seen my nephew yet. When will you bring him to Winterfell?”

 _When he is nearly a man grown, with his father’s size and strength, and able to take on anyone who tries to challenge his inheritance._ “Perhaps when he’s ready to be fostered. Not before. He is a child lord.”

Arya nodded.  “Then I suppose that Gen—that I should come visit you.”

Sansa drew away to consider her sister. Then she leaned back against the tree again, shaking her head.

“Arya, how long are you going to keep this up?”

“Keep what up?”

“I know exactly what Ser Gendry means to you, Arya. Stannis’ will legitimized him, and the King and Queen are prepared to uphold most of the provisions of his will. There is nothing to prevent your marriage.”

Arya’s face was blank.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your relationship isn’t exactly a secret. You are sleeping with him in the forge. You were sharing his tent during the Wars when I saw you again… Seven Hells, Arya, when did you last sleep alone?”

Arya laughed out loud. “I’ve never heard you curse before! Not the ever so proper Sansa Stark!”

“Arya…”

“It’s not even a question I know how to answer, Sansa. I slept with Gendry when I was a child fleeing the capital, although it was just sleeping and sharing body heat back then, so I didn’t freeze to death. I’ve shared a bed with him since the night I found him chopping wood in the Riverlands… perhaps three turns after my fourteenth nameday? Lied and told him I was fifteen, nearly sixteen, though… I didn’t want him to act the shy maid with me when there was no need.”

“Arya!”

 “What? He knows the truth now! I did what I had to do. And don’t you _dare_ say a word about it, for you’ve secrets of your own.” She stretched and smiled like a cat. “Don't you?”

And Sansa didn’t even have the decency to blush.

“Aye,” she said quietly. “I’ve secrets of my own. And what I wouldn’t give to be able to marry a man of my choosing.”

“But I don’t want to marry Gendry,” Arya said stubbornly. “He’s already insufferable enough as my _lover,_ always mooning about and trying to act the hero on my behalf. I can’t abide him sometimes...”

“Silly sister, I’ve seen the way you look at him. And the songs the bards play have reached even my court in the mountains.”

“Stupid songs.”

“Most of us need those songs. You don’t. You have the kind of love that’s worth singing about.”

“That’s why I don’t need the pomp and ceremony. And I don’t want Gendry as my lord husband. He already thinks he can tell me what to do, the stupid bull… what we have is enough.”

“Mayhaps it is for you,” Sansa said, “But is it enough for him?”

Arya went silent.

“If it is, then I’ll leave you well enough alone. You certainly don’t need my interference on behalf of Bran, who’s decided he’s going to be the law of the North all by himself.” Both sisters giggled. “But Arya, if it’s not enough for Gendry, if he wants you for his wife… would you deny him his heart’s desire?”

And seeing the light spark in her sister’s eyes, Sansa knew she’d gotten through.

 


	5. Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of 3, "The Celebrity and the Handyman"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending the week with a 3 part Modern AU drabble series. Enjoy!

She was the kind of girl that a man like him could only dream about.

And every day, and especially by night, men all over the world dreamed. The polls of men’s magazines regularly rated the dancer, model, ambassador, spokeswoman, and superstar actress Arya Stark as one of the top 10 most beautiful women in the world.

Gendry had only just been hired as one of the night shift maintenance workers in her building, working for Engineering. The thought of Arya Stark living in the penthouse of the high rise condo skyscraper in Lower Manhattan made Gendry the envy of the men at his regular bar. But when creepy Lommy suggested that he use the surveillance camera system to spy on her, perhaps even get a bit of prime celebrity nude footage to sell, he received a shove off his barstool for the trouble.

That wasn’t the kind of thing that Gendry wanted on his conscience. Although he’d grown up rough on the streets of London, he nonetheless had a sense of morality. Although it got him teased and called everything from a priest to a Boy Scout, living with a code of honor was the only way Gendry knew how to do things.

And so he came to be that trusted, friendly face who Arya’s people called whenever the dishwasher trap needed to be emptied, or one of the bulbs in her fancy expensive chandeliers needed to be changed. Six months after she’d moved in, she decided she was tired of the nondescript beige walls, and hired him to paint her master a pale shade of grey.

That time, she’d stayed in the penthouse while he painted. Normally, this made Gendry a bit uncomfortable and the job a bit less fun, as he couldn’t blast his music and sing along to the steel music of hard rock while he worked. But that’s how he learned that Arya had similar music tastes, and they ended up singing together.

They were also both from London. Of course, Arya was from an aristocratic family, her grandmother had been born titled, and her father was a famous barrister. Gendry didn’t know who his grandmother was, and he wouldn’t know his father if he passed him on the street.

It didn’t matter. They were English, making their fortunes in America, in the Big Apple. Across the pond, their class differences might have meant they would have never met, for Gendry wouldn’t have been working in any of the places Arya’s family owned… he didn’t have the certifications back home.

Here, under the lights of New York, a celebrity girl and a handyman could be great friends.

Gendry had taught her how to paint. Her fans would have been amused and slightly horrified to see their idol in nothing but a sports bra and paint-splattered overalls, laughing as Gendry’s hand guided hers as she rolled the paint onto her bedroom walls.

When the job was done, it was nearly two in the morning. He’d missed his regular hangout with the boys, but found he didn’t feel badly about it.

“I’ve had such a massively fun time,” she said, smiling. “This has been better than some of my past dates.”

“Are you sure?” he teased her as he washed his hands in the kitchen sink. (He’d use acetone on them when he got home, but this would be good enough so that he wouldn’t ruin his MetroCard.)

“I’m sure. My breakup with my ex was a disaster. Ned’s a nice guy, but he’s young Hollywood as well. As I landed bigger and better roles, he couldn’t handle it.”

She’d watched every move he’d made since entering the apartment early in the afternoon, trailing him from room to room. _It’s so she can be sure I don’t make off with the silver,_ thought Gendry ruefully.

“That’s got to be hard. Being in the same industry and all.”

Arya nodded. “How about you?”

“Me?”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

He shook his head. “Not too many girls in building maintenance, you see.”

“There’s lots of pretty maids.”

Right, and well Gendry knew it. Hardly a day went by without one of the housekeepers intentionally brushing against him, giggling as he walked by, or openly propositioning him for sex. (One even told him, “If you want to strip for a little extra money, baby, I’ve got your number.”)

“No time. I’m busy with night school. Trying to finish my last few classes.”

“What field?” Arya asked curiously.

“Engineering.” Gendry grinned at her, shutting off the water. “I want a real engineering job, not just the title of ‘maintenance engineer.’”

He reached for a towel, but Arya was already handing it to him.

“So you work, go to school, and hang out with your friends once or twice a week. You ride the subway like a normal person and grab lunch from food trucks.” She sighed. “Your life sounds like heaven.”

“Yeah, but making the rent each month isn’t exactly a picnic,” he chuckled. “I share a hole in the wall in the Bronx with three other guys. When the third comes into town every other weekend, I get kicked out of his bedroom, and sleep on the sofa. And it’s not the pullout kind.”

Gendry turned away from her, placing the towel back on the rack, feeling a little embarrassed by his self-revelation. Why on earth would a world famous actress like Arya Stark know or care about his life? He probably sounded bitter…

Then there was the sweetest pressure on his shoulder.

He turned around.

Arya was looking up at him with a shy smile on her face.

He’d never seen that look before on her. (And he’d seen all of her movies.)

“Gendry, I want... I want to see you again. If that’s okay.”

At first, he didn’t get it. “Sure, let me know when you want the other rooms painted. Glad you liked the work I did…”

He was hushed when she stood on tiptoe, planted both hands on his shoulders, and kissed him gently. Quickly. As if asking for permission.

When she let him go, he took a step back, reddening.

“Arya, I…”

“Oh, God! Gendry, I’m sorry, you must think I’m terrible, attacking you like that.”

“It’s not that, milady, I just…”

"I don't want you to think I'm that kind of girl. But today, you and I, we..."

He was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. Arya glanced down.

“Shit, it’s my manager. I’ve got to take this, I am so sorry, but… please don’t leave, Gendry. As soon as I find out what she wants, I’ll explain what I… just one...”

She picked up her cell phone on what he expected would be its final ring before going to voice mail.

“Yes, Karen? Yes? What did you find out? I know you’ve been working on it all night…”

Arya left the kitchen and went to the back. _Out of sight, out of mind._ Gendry stood there, feeling the heat still risen to his face, and felt uncertain about what to do.

He waited a long time.

 

*

 

The next morning, Gendry was awakened by the incessant buzzing of his phone. Opening his eyes, he saw that he’d passed out on the living room sofa, although it was _not_ his flatmate’s weekend home, amid a mess of popcorn, beer, and the latest _People_ and _OK!_ Magazines with Arya Stark cover stories.

He couldn’t remember if he’d been dreaming, but all he could think about was Arya. And when he looked down, he saw that his hand was down his pants.

And he recalled what he _had_ been thinking of when he finally drifted off to sleep.

_But it all seemed so real!_

_This is exactly why you don't drink, mate. Why would Arya Stark fall asleep on your bed,_ after  _making out with you half the night? That's a horny fantasy, not the life of some ordinary maintenance guy._

Feeling disoriented, he scrambled for his phone, which he thought had fallen to the floor, but only came up with the remote control instead. Glancing up, he saw that either he or one of his flatmates had turned on CNN. The volume was muted, but the ticker read “On the Phone With Arya Stark’s Manager.”

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Gendry turned up the volume.

“…that is what I am saying to you, Walt. We unequivocally deny that these pictures were photoshopped and doctored, like so many celebrity nude videos. It’s such a violation of privacy, and my client is devastated.”

“We understand Arya Stark’s position on the leaks, Karen, but you’ve got to understand that this material is now out there. She’s the international box office sweetheart, and has been since she was only 12 years old. Her films are considered family friendly. But now when you search for her name, these photos and clips are everywhere…”

Gendry’s heart beat fast. A quick search of the major news channels showed that the story was now news worldwide.

That must have been what Arya and her manager were talking about! But why couldn’t he remember leaving her penthouse? Or coming home?

He didn’t have time to figure it out. Just then, the front door opened, and Lommy, Hot Pie, and Anguy crowded in.

Behind him, there were people. And cameras.

Lots and lots of cameras.

“Thank God for the coppers outside,” drawled Anguy after Hot Pie and Lommy slammed the door in the paparazzi's faces. “Otherwise, we’d be overrun by now. Lem can’t even get in.”

Lommy took the bags from the deli and set them on the kitchen counter. “Looks like this stash has got to last us until Gendry’s hot new girlfriend’s people can get here.”

Yes.  _This_ was why Gendry didn’t drink.

“What are you on about? What girlfriend?”

The three men looked at each other, then burst into laughter.

Just then, the door to his most-of-the-time bedroom opened. From it emerged a small, familiar-looking petite girl with the most perfect tousled brunette bedhead he'd ever seen…

Wearing nothing except for his favorite dress shirt. His _only_ dress shirt.

“Morning, guys,” said Arya to everyone… but with eyes only for Gendry. "Thanks for letting me stay over. Sorry to bring the entire international press corps to your doorstep."

As she came to sit next to him on the sofa, Gendry fought to urge to pinch himself.

This had to be a dream.

But it wasn't. 

This was now his life.

Without another word, he gathered her into his arms, and kissed the top of her head.

"Hello, you. Hope you slept well."

And Arya Stark, the star of millions of men's fantasies, looked at Gendry Waters as if he were the sun, the moon, and the stars...

In that moment, Gendry felt he could do anything.


	6. Nervous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of 3, "The Celebrity and the Handyman"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of past Arya/Edric Dayne.

“There’s really nothing to be nervous about,” Arya assured Gendry as their limousine sped toward the Dolby Theatre.

She could tell from his body language that her boyfriend was like a stag caught in headlights. How could a man who could take a studio quality camera apart and _fix it_ be afraid of a little walk on a red carpet?

It wasn’t like him to be this unnerved. Arya had prided herself on being fearless, a byproduct of being famous since she was only 12 years old. The press, the public, and the posh girls at school had been merciless, and she had two choices: adapt or go mad.

Arya had chosen to be herself in the spotlight. To soak up every flash as if each was a ray of sun.

But the life she led had been quite lonely. Not even her fellow young celebrities could understand the bubble she lived in. After winning her first Emmy for what had been the most popular cable series of the decade, she’d gone on to earn an Oscar nomination for a movie that had won Best Picture, and a Tony for Best Actress in the stage production of _Sabrina._

It was too bad she couldn’t sing, she sometimes thought. But she’d earn a Grammy yet. Arya was determined to be an EGOT by the time she was thirty.

Or perhaps even 25.

What other boyfriend would see beyond the glitz and glamour, the fashion and fame, the stardom and the spectacle to love her just as she was? It was hard enough to keep a good girl friend. Most weren't able to accept Arya's level of success, that she _would_ nail every role she was ever cast in, that she’d steal every scene. That the camera loved her face and personality.

That you couldn’t take your eyes off her.

It was Gendry Waters whom Arya couldn’t take her eyes from just then. If there was a better-looking man alive than her boyfriend, she’d yet to meet him. He always cut a fine figure in a suit, but the tux he was wearing dialed things up another notch.

She knew what everyone was saying about her being with him. That he couldn’t possibly love or understand her. That he was only with her for the money and notoriety. That he had nothing to offer her except a screwdriver, a hammer… and a good shag.

 _If they only knew how amazing he is in bed,_ she thought naughtily, _they might refrain from writing such stupid things._

_Besides, Gendry was the only reason I didn’t relapse when the stupid press published those stupid pictures. That stupid fucker Ned Dayne. You’re a celebrity, for fuck’s sake… you can’t lose your phone! And if you do, wipe the data!_

_Stupid prick. That’s why his last two films flopped at the box office._

_It’s why I can’t have as much fun with Gendry. I’ll admit it, I’m a bit of a show-off. Taking those pictures while I was seeing Ned made me feel sexy, confident, and powerful. But it’s not a risk that I can take ever again._

_With Gendry, I feel safe._

_Even now when he’s shaking, all six foot five inches of muscle, unruly hair, and gorgeous blue eyes._

Reaching over, she took his hand in hers, laced the fingers together, and placed them both on her lap.

“Don’t even think about them,” she said softly. “Think of only me.”

Looking into his eyes seemed to calm him instantly.

“Not a problem. Because there’s no one else I’d rather think about.”

Their lips met despite Arya’s 4 hours in makeup that afternoon. (Her people had to learn to make their work last after she started dating Gendry.) And the kisses they exchanged were sweeter than their hungry, breathless usual fare.

Promises of things to come.

Arya drew back first, starry-eyed.

“You make me so happy, Gendry. Who would have ever thought we’d still be together four years later?”

He chuckled. “In the beginning, they didn't even give us four months.”

“Or four weeks, really. The tabloids and the paparazzi were awful at first. Thank God for Hot Pie and Lommy and Anguy and Lem and your whole squad. Otherwise, we’d have starved to death.”

That got him laughing, which was her goal. Gendry had done a few other red carpet events with Arya before, but her man typically shied away from the larger award ceremonies, where Arya would be working, giving dozens of interviews, and showcasing a top global designer’s work.

But things were changing between them lately. From an easy friendship to a relationship forged during the leaks crisis, they had fallen into a steady rhythm as boyfriend and girlfriend over the past few years. But now that Gendry was done with engineering school, he was traveling with Arya upon occasion to be with her on location. Not because it was a matter of trust; she trusted him more than anyone.

It was just that she couldn’t bear to be without him sometimes. It was lonely in the spotlight, working during some of life’s biggest moments.

She was up for an Oscar for a second time in less than five years. Win or lose, she wanted her love with her.

Arya’s plan to distract Gendry worked well up until they were about a block away from the Dolby Theatre. But as the Oscar statues became visible, along with the people on the red carpet, his leg began to shake again.

“Ar, that’s not going to help me at this point,” he told her as she began to idly massage his thigh muscle, trailing north, “and although I’m always up for _that,_ all it’ll do is mess up our fancy clothes.”

“If you don’t want to go out there with me, I'll understand.”

She would be crushed if she had to leave Gendry in the limousine and go into the theatre all by herself. She had been looking forward to claiming this man in front of one of the biggest stages in the world, and no, their attendance at the last two Super Bowls didn’t count.

Because she wasn’t tall, willowy, and blonde or ginger, Arya was rarely considered for “princess” or “love interest” roles. Oh, sure, in the press, she always played it off as if she’d rather have the comedic and dramatic roles she’d taken, filled with action, suspense, and characterization dependent upon more than a girl’s looks…

But secretly, she seethed at being overlooked. Especially because one of her only peers of her generation was her own sister Sansa, who won an Oscar seven years before for playing Queen Elizabeth in yet another unneeded overdone costume drama about that overrated monarch’s life. (Enough of “Good Queen Bess” already.)

Arya’s box office was better than her sister’s by billions. Since her Oscar, Sansa had taken mainly smaller indie film roles, the kind they showed in art houses. But Sansa was now happily married to a costar nearly twice her age, popping out babies between supporting roles. She was so happy and smug that it always annoyed Arya, although she loved her sister fiercely and would defend her against all comers.

Sansa was just so _smug._ It was galling.

And of course, because Sansa’s husband was in the industry, and came from a good Scottish family, there had been no problem with him meeting the Starks. It was all peachy keen and oh so lovely…

Until Arya proudly introduced Gendry at a massive dinner party at her parents' country estate in Yorkshire, and they all learned who his father was at the same time.

The MP Robert Baratheon, also known as Arya’s dad’s best friend.

 _Uncle_ Robert.

Arya had never seen her dear nuncle the same way again.

But Gendry (who was the spitting image of his father when he was younger, just as she was supposedly the splitting image of her father’s sister who’d died before Arya was born)… her Gendry was saying something.

“Why would I miss this, Arya?”

“Because you’re nervous.”

“I know, love, but it’s your night. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

"But Gendry..."

"I'll be fine."

She kissed him. “I’ll steer you past the cameras fast.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Soon, there came the magic moment when the limousine came to a stop, the driver got out to open the door, Arya took his gloved hand in hers, stepped one silver heel onto the red carpet.

And everything was people, and lenses, and flashes of light, and color, and sound.

Behind her, then at her side, Gendry was no longer a bundle of nerves, but his steady, quiet, and constant self. She could feel his eyes on her as her assistant steered them to the first interviewer, appreciated the sensation of his hand on her waist, her arm, or her shoulder.

When the interviews began, he didn’t crowd her, but stepped back a tiny bit and let her do her thing.

But his eyes never left her. When she glanced back at him to see if he was all right, he just winked at her.

Which made her melt.

Was she really an Oscar nominated actress in her twenties?

Just then, she felt like a blushing schoolgirl.

There was no way she could have been prepared for what happened next. She’d just wrapped up her interview with E!, and had turned to see where Gendry was, but for some reason, he’d disappeared.

Her heart sank into her stomach. _Maybe it got to be too much for him,_ she thought. _But I love him for trying._

Her manager clearly saw her looking around. “Gendry gone?”

“Yes, and I have no idea where he’s off to.”

“Perhaps the men’s room? Carpet gets longer and longer with each of these shows.”

“Right,” said Arya. “Anyway…”

She went to walk toward the next station, but suddenly, she was surrounded by what seemed to be every camera in Southern California.

_Of all the things… what’s happened now?_

At first, she tried to walk away.

But a kneeling man was blocking her way. Gendry.

On one knee.

With a very distinctive box in his hand.

Her quiet handyman who hated the spotlight was proposing to her in front of the entire fucking world!

“Oh my God!”

“You know that I’m not a man of many words,” he told her, as cameras flashed and rolled. “This is the scariest thing I’ve ever done. But Arya Stark, I love you.”

She could barely see for all her tears. “I love you too, Gendry Waters,” she rasped as he placed the dazzling diamond solitaire on her finger.

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she laughed and cried. “Yes, yes, yes!”

After they kissed and the red carpet exploded with cheers, Arya whispered: “I never dreamed you would propose in public. No wonder you were so nervous!”

“Never dreamed I would, either. But I know how much you love the spotlight.”

She kissed him again.

(And she won her first Oscar that night, too.)


	7. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final part of "The Celebrity and the Handyman," and the last of my Arya/Gendry Week 2015 entries.

“What kind of handyman are you? I bring you halfway around the world, and you can’t even fix a little air conditioning unit?”

Gendry frowned at his wife of six days, who was using her cell phone’s flashlight feature to light his repair job. A repair job that happened to be going very badly.

They’d come here to get away from it all. Their wedding had been a small, secluded affair with only family and friends in the perfection that was Santorini, Greece… yet of course, the global press found ways to snap pictures of their bliss. As they always did when it came to the details of Arya Stark’s life.

As of five days ago, the entertainment news was now on Stark-Waters Baby Watch. Gendry secretly thought it ridiculous, but this was the life he’d chosen when he fell in love with a celebrity ingénue.

That was the downside. Most men would feel the upside would be the many perks one received when they were the husband of a global superstar.

But in Gendry’s opinion, the best part of all was having Arya Stark as his wife.

Now and forever.

After a ceremony that left not a single dry eye among their family and friends, and a reception afterparty that lasted until dawn, a chartered flight had whisked them to Bali… where they spent the first 24 hours of their marriage in bed.

From there, a yacht belonging to a friend of the Stark family had taken them to a secluded private island in the clear blue waters of the Indian Ocean.

Their very own paradise.

Since then, Arya and Gendry had spent the time swimming, sunbathing, and eating and drinking to their heart’s content. The days were very hot and humid, which was the disadvantage of honeymooning during the summer, but at night, they could cool off.

Until now. About a half hour after they’d come inside from the beach, the power shorted out, and there were sparks from the air conditioning vent. So now here they were, squeezed into an electric cabinet inside a cabin steamier than the outside.

They were hot, uncomfortable, and on the verge of having their first argument as a married couple.

“If you’d just hold that light still, I could just…”

“Why?”

Gendry frowned angrily at his wife. “What do you mean, why?”

“Just what I said, stupid. Why are you fixing the air conditioning unit first if the power’s out? That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard of…”

“Because I’m the one with a degree in engineering, Arya, not you,” he grumbled testily.

Arya glared at him, switching off her phone. “So I’m the stupid one, am I?”

“I didn’t say you were…”

“I quit school after I finished my A-Levels and you’ve always held that against me! Never mind that I was supportive my entire family on my acting salary, and my sick Gran besides! Never mind that  _I’m_ the one who paid the last two years of your university fees…”

“Throw that into my face, will you? I don’t want your money! I never did! And it was a loan, not a gift!”

“Why would I loan money  _to my husband?”_

“Because  _your husband_ doesn’t want your money, Arya! Your husband just wants you!”

Suddenly, the cell phone flashlight was switched on, illuminating Arya’s face in the dark.

“I feel so helpless sometimes.”

He looked up at her. She was biting her lip.

“I pretend to be all kinds of people on stage and on the big and small screen. But Gendry, you’re just…”

Sighing, he put down the pliers and held her tiny, sweaty body close to his.

“Sometimes I think you’re the only thing tethering me to the real world," she murmured into his chest. "You’re my anchor, babe. The ground beneath my feet. You’re my earth. My gravity.”

He lifted the sweat-soaked hair that clung to the back of her neck. “And you’re the lightest thing that ever came into my life. You’ve shown me a world I could have never imagined existed… I mean, there weren’t many red carpet premieres, or media scandals, or private islands in my past, you know.”

“I know.” She pressed a kiss to his chest. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m just hot, and sleepy, and…  _happy.”_

“Being happy made you yell at me?”

“Yes. Because I know what it’s like not to be happy. And what it’s like to lose it. And you make me happier than anyone.”

He lifted her chin.

“I can’t promise that you’ll always be happy, Arya. All I can promise is that I’ll always be there.”

He kissed her lips, very gently.

“And if you turn back on that light, I’ll get a little cool air circulating in here.”

“What are you trying to say, that I’m full of hot air?”

Gendry’s face fell.

Arya smirked.

“You’re so easy,” she sighed, kissing his sweaty jawline, then switching back on her phone. “Come on then, handyman, show me what you can do.”

And he did.

Inside  _and_ outside the closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although this day was about "heat," had to keep it clean to keep the series rated T! Hope you enjoyed these little drabbles of mine!


End file.
